The Saviour
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot sequel to The Speech. After the success of taking down the Moriarty trio once and for all, Sherlock is faced with a life without Molly, only to discover life otherwise.


_**A/N:** Two friends on Tumblr inspired me to write a sequel to the horrible tragic one-shot, "The Speech".I could not have done it had they not planted this plot idea in my head. I hope I've done it justice and written it well. Also, I hope this makes up for all the pain, bleeding and tears I caused from the previous one. x_

* * *

**The Saviour**

Sherlock was out of breath by the time he reached the ominous black car that stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the forest clearing they were in. He opened the door and rushed in, seating himself next to the tall, dignified frame that was Mycroft.

"How did you know where to find us?" he asked, trying to catch his breath.  
"I always know where to find you, Sherlock," Mycroft replied calmly.  
"Is he…Is—" Sherlock paused to cough. His throat was dry as a desert from panting.  
"Is he dead?"  
"Yes." Mycroft assured him, "As dead as his twin brothers."  
"Gerald Moriarity…finally." Sherlock said as he exhaled, sinking into the stiff leather seat of the car.  
"He certainly wasn't pleased that you all had nabbed both twins." Mycroft remarked casually, "Absolutely hell bent on destroying you."  
"Are you _sure_ he's—" Sherlock asked, turning sharply to face his brother.  
"His body is riding in the armed vehicle in front of us. If he should so much as twitch his lip, there will be another bullet through him."

Sherlock sat back and tried to lean his head against the headrest. His breathing had regulated somewhat and he attempted to shut his eyes to get some rest now that this wild goose chase was finally over. However, it was no easy feat. For how did one just slip into slumber after months of living in a sort of feverish mix of fear and hatred?

The death of Molly had been his last straw, _almost_ his last straw. He could not give up now. She would certainly not have approved. If anyone deserved to have the Moriarty trio put away for life, it would have been for Molly. After all, she had attempted the infiltration that neither Mycroft nor Sherlock could. Not only had she attempted it, she had succeeded, obtaining all the vital data that had led to the fall of the final Moriarty brother. It was at the cost of her life that she had done so. So if Sherlock owed it to anyone to press on and hunt Gerald Moriarty down, it was the late Molly Hooper.

"Gerald Moriarty…" Sherlock muttered as he shut his eyes, slowly rubbing his temples.  
"…is dead," Mycroft assured his younger brother. He could sense the hard edge in Sherlock's voice still. It would take Sherlock a while to recover from this whole dramatic turn of events. Mycroft was not worried about that, however. Hopping from one adrenalin-filled case to another was what kept his brother 'off the sauce'. What plagued Mycroft, however, was the effect of such long-term mourning on his brother.

"We'll get you cleaned up and then I suggest you take a trip out of England. You need to be on some fresh terrain. Take your mind off things…"  
"I'm fine…" Sherlock replied, his voice tight.  
"You and I both know you are not." Mycroft said knowingly.  
"Why would leaving London do me any good?"  
"The air in London is too heavy for you, dear brother." Said Mycroft, "Like I said, fresh terrain, fresh scenery, new people, new activities…"  
"I just need a bath and I'll be fine." Sherlock insisted, folding his arms and leaning against the window.

Mycroft sighed softly and took his phone out to inform headquarters to prepare for the arrival of Gerald Moriarty's corpse and for them to ready a place for Sherlock to get cleaned up and rest.

When they arrived, Sherlock solemnly followed the way to his chambers in one of Mycroft's top secret establishments. He was ushered to his room where he had a long, hot bath, wrapped himself in a robe and lay down. Before he knew it, his heavy eyelids got the better of him and Sherlock slept. As he slept, Sherlock could see flashes of everything that had transpired. His mind would flit haphazardly between images of the twins, James and Joseph Moriarty, their mastermind and elder brother, Gerald, and of course, Molly.

James, or Jim, had been dead of, course. But Joseph had shown up as the first threat, going on a murdering spree that terrorised London. When they finally caught up with him, beating him at his own game, Joseph had claimed one last victim before his own demise, and that victim had been Molly. It was Molly who had discovered the existence of the third brother and unlocked the coordinates to the hidden enclave Gerald had built for himself.

Then, in the middle of the dream, as it had been for the past two months, Sherlock would hear the slick, soft sound of the sniper rifle that launched the bullet into Molly's chest. It had been so quick, almost invisible. Sherlock's mind always brought him back to Molly. Molly, who was bleeding from her mouth as her hand desperately clutched her blouse that had turned crimson. He could hear her gagging, choking on her blood. Yet, in her final few moments, she had mustered a smile for him, reaching to touch his face. And when she whispered a soft _goodbye _to him, Sherlock had kissed her. Before his lips could reach her, he would wake. He would taste the salt from his tears and then collapse back into bed, eyes wide open, unable to fall back asleep.

This was no different. He could hear her gasp for air. He could see her fingers twitch from the pain and the colour drain from her face. When he heard the soft words of farewell uttered, Sherlock bent to kiss her. Just when he was close enough to feel her breath, he was jerked awake, sitting up violently in bed. A single tear rolled down his face, dissipating into a crack in his lip. The salt that he tasted, now reminded him of the blood he had tasted when they had kissed.

"Molly…" he whispered as he put his head in his hands.

Perhaps Mycroft was right. He needed a change of scene. He did not want to live with these nightmares forever. Sherlock did not want to forget Molly, but he could not keep remembering her like this.

The next morning, Sherlock was dressed in a fresh suit and strode to his brother's office. Knocking politely, his brother looked up and beckoned him in.

"I normally avoid pleasantries between us both, Sherlock," Mycroft began, "But I should like to ask, how are you feeling?"  
"Ready to leave London," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft smiled. He was relieved his brother had come to his senses.

"I have a private plane waiting for you, to take you to a small island just along the Greek coast where you will have a private villa all to yourself. You are to take your rest there. It has been booked indefinitely, so take your time." Mycroft said, as he leaned forward on his desk.  
"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly. The brothers had never been on good terms, but Sherlock could not deny that his brother had been nothing but good to him. This ticket out of London was no exception.

"You will let me know if there are any interesting cases?" Sherlock asked.  
"You have my word."  
"You will let John and Mary know? And Mrs Hudson? That I will be away."  
"They already know, Sherlock." Said Mycroft, "They encourage it fully."  
"I shouldn't be gone too long. After all, London _is_ where I belong," he said, almost obstinately.  
"I'll say it again, Sherlock," Mycroft remarked with a small smile, "Take your time."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, and made his way out of his brother's office.

"Oh, Sherlock, one more thing."

The detective stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother, who had gotten up from his desk.

"I know you'll be on holiday, loosely speaking, but I have some reading material for you, something to keep your mind sharp while you rest."

Mycroft walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a file. He handed it to Sherlock who peered closely at the solitary label in the front of the file. It had a single word on it, typed in an austere, black typeface.

"Arachlar…_Arach-lar…_" Sherlock said, pronouncing the word.  
"Yes. A new technology we are developing at back at HQ. I thought it might be of interest to you."  
"I don't even know what it means."  
"Well, you've split the word correctly…"  
"What?"  
"Read it on the plane. I trust you will enjoy it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at his brother who had returned peacefully to his seat, smiling calmly at Sherlock.

"Have a good trip, Sherlock." Said Mycroft.  
"I'll try," he muttered, finally exiting the room.

Mycroft had made all the necessary arrangements already, prior to Sherlock agreeing to the trip. Sherlock had a small leather bag packed with some of his clothes and personal items. The villa would have everything he needed, so he did not have to bring much else.

When Sherlock boarded the tiny aircraft, his curiosity got the better of him as he removed from his bag the file Mycroft had given him.

_You've split the word correctly_.

Mycroft's words ran through his mind as Sherlock processed what the contents of this file could be.

"Arach-lar…Arach…" Sherlock repeated, trying to make sense of the word. "Arach…arach….arachnid?" Spiders? Why would his brother want him to read about spiders? Sherlock grew impatient and flipped the file open. The first thing Sherlock saw were photos of spiders, so he was right. The pictures were clearly for scientific documentation, with zoomed in photos of spiders positioned against different measuring calipers. As he flipped the pages, the focus of the spiders began to shift to the microscopic ducts on their bodies that produced the fluid that made their webs. Sherlock began to read with interest as the pages began to detail the properties of the web fluid and their immense strength.

This was definitely interesting reading material as Sherlock flipped through the pages, casually amused, absorbing the information and data effortlessly.

"What are you on about, Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered to himself, smirking.

As he carried on reading, he moved on to a more complex section that really challenged everything he knew about chemistry and material engineering. This section detailed the different experiments performed to best harness the fluid to generate into a thread or some kind of wire, something one could actually work with and build with. At this point, Sherlock was perplexed at how his brother decided that he should be reading about spiders on his flight to Greece.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" said the flight attendant, interrupting his reading.  
"Hmm, yes, coffee please," he answered, "Black, two sugars."  
"Right away, sir."

Sherlock returned to look at the file in his hand and tried to stifle a laugh. He really had no idea what his brother was up to. However, he had nothing to do, no world-class criminal at his heels, he could afford a little bit of this drivel. When Sherlock flipped to the next page, his frowned in curiosity at the sudden change in topic. The section on arachnids had finished and he was now staring at a page detailing the properties of Kevlar.

"Arach-lar…" he said out loud, smiling to himself, "You want to make bullet-proof vests out of spider webs…"

It did not seem illogical in the least. The strength of the web fluid had proven itself statistically stronger than the current polymers used for Kevlar. What's more, it was a hundred times lighter. If harnessed properly, a thin layer consisting of the web fluid was far more resilient than the required thickness of a standard Kevlar vest.

Sherlock's coffee arrived but he barely noticed it as he now read on, completely absorbed. HQ had done a marvellous job harnessing the web fluid and turning it into a workable material. They had actually turned it into microscopic threads that once woven, would offer more protection than three Kevlar vests, at a fraction of the bulk and weight.

"Fascinating…" Sherlock uttered as he turned the pages hungrily. His brother really was right. Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying himself. What could possibly have gone through Mycroft's head though, to given him this? Of course, Mycroft had said it was to keep him sharp, to keep him thinking, but Mycroft never had to worry about Sherlock letting his brain go to waste.

"What is all this about, Mycroft?" he said to himself as he finally took a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock flipped quickly through a few pages that showed sketches of possible Arachlar designs, detailing how slim they were in comparison to Kevlar. As he browsed through the designs, he finally landed on a page that caught his full attention.

"Oh," he breathed.

The page that now stared Sherlock in the face was a full-length picture of Molly Hooper. It detailed her measurements and had photographs of her of her front, her back, and in profile. As he continued, slowly lifting the pages, he read through the documentation of Molly's Arachlar suit and how they had fit it on her and all the different prototypes. There were sections that even contained her handwriting, where she would report on the comfort of the suit and how it affected her agility.

Sherlock frowned in concentration as he read every word that detailed anything to do with Molly. He wanted to know how each prototype fared and more importantly, how the final one had failed to save her life. It amused him that Molly and Mycroft had been in cahoots all along. Poring over the reports, he could see that they were close to being successful. So how had she still died?

Exhaling sharply, Sherlock reached the final pages of the file. To his surprise, it contained what looked like a post-mortem report. This was probably the part that detailed the level of damage to the suit that caused her death. The British Government was very fast indeed. Carefully, he read the details of Molly's final Arachlar suit and how it had not saved her.

As he read on, however, his eyes widened in disbelief.

**_Arachlar Full-Body Version 7.3:_**

_**Damage Report:** 23% overall damage to suit.  
**Bullet prevention:** Impact delay, 51.5%; Force absorption, 87%_

**_Hooper, Molly (Ms): Status Report_**

_**Injuries sustained—**_

**From bullet:**  
Laceration on impact area, small burns from bullet heat  
**Others:**  
Internal bleeding from repeated assault to stomach and lower back area.  
_Hairline fractures from restraint devices  
__Small fracture along femur from a fall to the side_

_**Expected time for full recuperation:**  
One month_

_**Current Status:**  
ALIVE_

Sherlock felt like he could strangle Mycroft. Why did he not tell him straightaway? And why was he now on a plane to Greece when Molly Hooper was alive and probably recuperating at one of Mycroft's other HQs? He slammed the file shut and leaned in his seat, resting his fingers against his chin as he began to think slowly.

It did not take much to guess why Mycroft had faked Molly's death. In fact, that was hardly the thing that bothered Sherlock. He easily deduced his brother's strategy in getting Molly Hooper to die. It really was the most logical thing to do. Molly's death had genuinely unhinged Sherlock, and that was what Gerald Moriarty needed. He needed to know he was one up against Sherlock. If he got cocky, he would most likely get careless. It was this brazen carelessness from having caused the detective such crippling agony, that resulted in the final bullet to the oldest Moriarty brother's forehead.

Sherlock was no stranger to faking death. Neither was the British Government. But Sherlock was angry that Mycroft had kept it from him when the secret did not have to be kept anymore. Not only had Mycroft _not_ told him, he had sent him away. Sherlock readied his phone such that the moment he got off the plane he was going to call Mycroft to demand an explanation. In fact, Sherlock was tempted to get the pilot to just change course now and head back to London.

It was a little too late for a change in flight path, for Sherlock was informed that they were soon to arrive at their destination. With clenched teeth, he prepared himself for landing as he mentally prepared all the things he wanted to unleash at his brother.

When his small plane landed on a private landing strip on a pristine little coastal enclave, a man in a loose shirt and long trousers came out to greet him.

"Hello, Mr Sherlock Holmes, greetings." he said, reaching for his bags.  
"Thank you." said Sherlock, storming past the man. "Do you have wi-fi? I need to make an urgent video call."  
"You will have to ask your host, sir, your host of this villa."  
"My host? I thought the villa was my own,"  
"Yes, but someone has to run the villa. Mr Mycroft Holmes has made all the arrangements…"  
"Fine," Sherlock snapped, "Take me to this _host_.."

Sherlock was led into the luxurious and open-spaced villa and ushered to a marvellous outdoor verandah that faced the sea.

"Would you like a beverage, sir, or maybe a—"  
"Get the boss or host or whoever it is here _now_," Sherlock muttered fiercely. The only want he had for a beverage was so that he could throw it in his brother's face.

Sherlock sat in his seat and took a deep breath, taking in the wonderfully fresh sea air. If he had not been so worked up, this would have been a wonderful place indeed. But Sherlock wanted none of it. He fiddled impatiently with his phone as he waited for someone to tell him where to get some damn wi-fi.

His back was to the long row of glass sliding doors that led into the house. Sherlock could hear the quiet footsteps of someone approaching him. He got on his feet and turned around, ready to demand some internet and the earliest flight home when he stopped short, unable to say a word. His heart quite nearly fell out of his chest.

Standing before him, in a casual chiffon dress the colour of daffodils, was Molly Hooper. She had not a scar on her and her eyes gleamed brightly at him. She gave him a gentle smile as she approached him slowly.

Sherlock could not utter a word as the woman he mourned for, the woman he loved too late, now walked right up to him, less than arms' length away from him. Molly reached up and gently touched her fingertips to the edge of his jaw, just as she had when she died in his arms. Her fingertips were delicate and cool but they brought such a rush to his skin that he thought he was going to melt.

"Is it really you?" he whispered, wondering if he was perhaps drugged up in a hospital somewhere, hallucinating.

Molly took one more step closing the gap between them both and now held his face firmly in both her hands.

"Why don't you kiss me and find out?" she answered softly.

Slowly, Sherlock lowered his head as he bent to kiss her. As their lips met, he felt the same warm surge that flooded his body, all from that one point of contact. This time, the smoothness of her lips lingered on his own, moving resolutely as she pressed herself towards him. His arms automatically moved to hold her to him. Bit by bit, his body felt like it was regaining consciousness. His heart that he had buried with Molly, now sang to life, beating wildly in its ribcage. Why did it have to lay buried, when the woman it beat for stood right before him?

He wanted to look at her properly, to ascertain that it was her, that she was indeed alive. Breaking from their kiss, Sherlock held her face in his hands as he studied her. He looked at the woman before him and checked it against every detail of Molly's that he had committed to memory. Those soft brown eyes, those beautiful lips, the lush texture of her hair, the elegance of her wrists, the sweet, shy posture of her shoulders.

"So, am I really me?" she asked him with a gentle laugh.  
"May I kiss you again to be sure?" he asked in return, the familiar spark returning to his eyes.  
"Be my guest…" she answered, leaning in to him again.

This time, he scooped her into his arms and quite almost lifted her off her feet. Sherlock crushed his mouth onto hers, kissing her as though every breath depended on it. His skin had gone numb from joy as the warm glow of being with her filled his entire being. He could scarcely believe that it was her arms that were wrapped around him now, her lips that he was kissing. Nobody got second chances like this. Nobody.

They remained there, on the verandah, clutching each other tightly, not saying a word. The only sound they could hear was the steady rush of waves.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, whispering into her ear.  
"Mmm?" she murmured in response, kissing his neck.  
"When we have children," he began, "How will we _ever_ explain to them about life and death?"

Molly laughed against Sherlock's chest. Her laughter brought a smile to his face. How long had it been since he last heard it?

"Why are you talking to me about children, Sherlock?" she asked back.  
"Well, I'm definitely going to marry you," he said, causing her to chuckle again.  
"That's jolly nice of you," she said, giving him a kiss, "I should like that very much."  
"So aren't children the next thing that follows? After marriage?"

Another chuckle escaped Molly as the naivety of the brilliant consulting detective tickled her no end.

"Am I wrong?" he asked, puzzled.  
"No…not really…" she said, "But I'll tell you what, Sherlock."  
"Hmm?" he responded, kissing her hair.  
"Now that we've finished with all this death business," she said, looking up at him, "Let's just concentrate on life now. Our life."  
"Our life," he repeated, smiling at her, "I like that."

Six months later, the couple flew back to London on the same plane that had flown them both to their little island escape. When they arrived, the first person they went to see was Mycroft.

"Well, you certainly took your time…" Mycroft remarked to his brother, before turning to nod politely at Molly.  
"You're the one who told me to," Sherlock answered with a shrug, "Booked indefinitely, if I recall you saying."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and went up to Molly. He smiled at her and extended his hand, which she graciously took. Shaking her hand firmly, Mycroft's face was filled with genuine gratitude.

"Thank you, Molly." Mycroft remarked warmly, "For bringing Sherlock back alive."

**END**


End file.
